“I’m what I look. A poor, helpless man in need of a friend. Why do we halt? I have many hours of energy left in me if there’s a safe bed at the end of the journey.”
“You think so but you’d go kerflummox first thing you know. You got to have victuals. We can’t git through tonight anyway. We’ll camp here off the trail and I’ll shoot something and make a soup. With a full stomach and some sound sleep you’ll go through to Massie’s mighty fine.”
“If you think best,” sighed Knight. “How far is it to the station?”
“Twenty miles,” replied Kinsty.
“Bout sixteen miles,” corrected a voice from the bushes.
Kinsty exclaimed under his breath and dropped on one knee and cocked his rifle. Knight warned:
“It’s all right. It’s a white voice.”
“It’s all right after we look him over,” growled Kinsty. “Stranger, whoever you be, show yourself. Both hands up and empty.”
A man stepped into the path between the two men, his arms raised, one holding a long Kentucky rifle. He said: “Here I be. Had to fetch the old gun along. Think I was red?”
“I knew you was white. But keep your hands up. Knight, lift up his hunting-shirt so we can have a peek at his back.”